Boogie Cousins and The Upside of a Bad Attitude

When the Kings and Pelicans squared off this week, it was a showcase for DeMarcus Cousins and Anthony Davis—the two best young big men in the game, the two best young players in the league, and arguably the NBA's two best big men, full stop. So far, the NBA's collective imagination has seized on the highlight-friendly, largely unprecedented Davis. But for both on-court prowess and sheer entertainment value, Cousins isn't far behind.

There's an important difference between Cousins and Davis, though, and it's not just that former is a traditional center and the latter is some sort of futuristic omni-positional hybrid. This summer, Davis—in the most orthodox terms possible—advanced his game. He bulked up, refined his outside shot, and showed up for Team USA a more aggressive, assertive player. Davis wasn't exactly facing criticism, but he was a work in progress. Now, he feels like a finished product, albeit one with seemingly limitless potential. This is what young players are supposed to do; this is how lottery picks transform into superstars. Change for the better follows a familiar, expected course.

With Sacramento off to an unexpectedly strong start and Cousins on the rampage, conventional wisdom suggests that he's made a similar leap. In his case, it wasn't the game that needed fixing. One way or another, Cousins has always been a monster. He's almost always bigger and stronger than anyone else on the court and has a rare combination of brute force and finesse that falls somewhere between peak Zach Randolph and Shaq at the height of his mid-career powers. At the same time, Cousins has spent most of his basketball life under scrutiny for his impulse control, his work ethic, and his pouting, slouchy body language. No one has ever questioned his talent or raw ability. It's his attitude—or at least people's perception of it—that has held Cousins back. Now, the former problem child has matured; the enfant terrible has seen the error of his ways. Whatever scrap of narrative you prefer, it's going to be some variation of "putting it all together."

Except Cousins hasn't exactly lost his attitude. When you watch Cousins play, there's still the same swagger, the same unbridled emotion, the same volatility. Only now, he's harnessed it, using his powers for good rather than evil. What was once a distraction has become his edge, an intangible that separates him from, say, Dwight Howard. The Zach Randolph comparison again seems relevant; it's also worth considering Rasheed Wallace or even Charles Barkley as a point of reference. Cousins is exciting to watch because he plays with feeling; he's unpredictable and at times, ecstatic. When he decides to take over a game or clinch a win, it's as much a matter of will as it is ability. Like Russell Westbrook, he spurs his team to greater heights by wearing his emotions on his sleeve; there's a range there that somehow seems more honest, or authentic, than more guarded, less expressive players.

It's not just that Cousins is the leader—however obliquely—of a team that could make the playoffs in the treacherous Western Conference. The way he ignites the crowd and swings momentum is something we rarely associate with his style of play. We expect guards, or a high-flying dunker like Davis, to move the crowd. Yet Cousins has that same sway over fans in the arena and those of us watching from home. On Tuesday, when he chased down a fast-breaking Jrue Holiday and swatted away his lay-up, it sent a jolt through the arena and prompted a Kings comeback. Sacramento came up short, but not before Cousins nearly won the game with a tough-minded move inside. Cousins is undoubtedly a post player but he's always a few steps out from the basket, allowing him an extra move or two to try and throw off defenders. You could argue that this space is also where the emotion, the excitement builds. With Cousins, there's a real tension and release. He gets the ball, gets worked up, and more often than not, pays it off with a big play.

Asking Cousins to change his personality wouldn't have just been pointless—it could have been disastrous. A player like Davis can change his game in certain ways, according to a certain script, because it suits him as a person. Cousins has taken a different path, finding a way to channel his energy in a way that helps, rather than hurts, himself and all those around him. We've seen it before and yet somehow, players who get the "troubled" label are never allowed to just be themselves and evolve accordingly. They're a problem until they aren't and rest assured, when Cousins or the Kings hit a rough patch, the old questions will rear their head once again. We also don't know when the old DeMarcus will return, and whether he'll be permitted fall into a permanent cycle of error and redemption.

In the same way that, once upon a time, athletes were expected to be role models, on some level we want star players to embody some Platonic ideal of an honorable competitor. And for the most part, it's a lie, or a deliberate avoidance of the fact that players are people. Take, for instance, Tim Duncan and the Spurs. Duncan is everything you'd want in a champion: upright, polite, and devoted to his team and his city. But Timmy is also dry and sardonic in ways that would probably offend some fans—if they were willing to pay attention, or got his sense of humor. The same goes for Gregg Popovich, a genuinely intriguing figure who also happens to be the best coach in basketball. Maybe it's not DeMarcus Cousins who is outside the mainstream or somehow flawed, but those of us watching the game who need to take a good hard look at our expectations and grow the fuck up.